Once Was
by the.eye.does.not.SEE
Summary: "Deep down, I know this never works... But you can lay with me so it doesn't hurt." Claire/Ryan.


**Title**: _Once Was_ (1/1)  
**Universe**: _The Following_ present, 1x01-1x02  
**Pairing**: Claire Matthews/Ryan Hardy  
**Rating**: PG-13/R  
**Summary**: "Deep down, I know this never works... But you can lay with me so it doesn't hurt."

**Author's Note: **Quite a spur-of-the-moment fic, written in full just last night. Thanks/credit to Sam Smith. Please read & enjoy!

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_This ain't love, it's clear to see, but darling... __**Stay with me.**_

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She was lying on her bed, curled up like a fetus inside a womb, when he stepped into her room. He paused in the doorway, suddenly feeling the need to walk back out through it right away, even though he'd practically had to threaten the night guard outside the door to be let in. The agents were very particular about her safety now-ironically, only _after_ she'd been held at gunpoint and nearly killed in her own bedroom; only _after_ her son had been stolen out of his home by his nanny and taken no one knew where. The rules were rigid now: no one entered her room without express permission from the U.S. marshal on her case, Scott Turner, and she didn't leave it unless she was accompanied by a hand-picked FBI escort. The Bureau wasn't taking any more chances with the local police, not since discovering the first impostor in their midst. Ryan didn't think the Bureau should be taking any more chances with their own agents, either. If Joe had had an inside man at the prison, and at his ex-wife's home, and two more in Sarah Fuller's neighborhood, it stood to reason that he had more than a few in the Bureau as well... But Ryan's opinion wasn't listened to during that particular discussion, mostly because they had already kicked him out of the room, telling him to go home and try to get some sleep. Marshal Turner had muttered _Why don't you try to get sane, too, Hardy? _as Ryan had left, and it had taken most of his willpower not to turn around and punch that man right in the face.

He and Turner had never gotten along, not since Ryan had been put on Carroll's case the first time around—and subsequently "Gone crazy," as Turner put it—and so it was no surprise to Ryan that they were still at odds. Nothing had changed over the years, except that the two men had both aged considerably. They were even still on the same goddamn case, and clearly thought just as badly of each other as they had ten years ago. The only reason Ryan hadn't smashed the man's nose in by now was because Turner appeared to be the only person, apart from himself, that was actually capable of keeping Claire safe for even a handful of hours. So they tolerated each other, like a dog and a cat would while living under the same roof: they hissed and spat at each other, circling angrily day and night, but they hadn't yet come to blows. Ryan knew it was only a matter of time, though.

Pushing thoughts of Turner out of his mind, Ryan finally stepped through the door, and pushed it closed behind him without trying to be quiet, letting the lock click audibly in the still room. Claire didn't move or lift her head from her place on the bed, though he knew she must've heard him enter. He knew she wasn't asleep. She hadn't slept in almost two days, and there was no way she was going to do so now. She wouldn't sleep again until she had her son back, and maybe not even then.

"Claire?" Ryan called her name softly, but still she didn't look up.

He took a few hesitant, careful steps into her room, navigating his way across the shag carpet as if it were a minefield. He stopped a couple paces from her bed, not wanting to get too close, and waited. Nearer to her now, he had a more full view: he could see the outline of her legs and backside, hunched and curled beneath the heavy covers of her bed; he could see her hair, flowing in a golden, tangled mass down her back. He couldn't see her face, but that was only because she had it hidden, pressed close against a pillow. He could tell from the dark spots on the usually bright fabric that she'd been crying into it, and he felt something inside him—maybe his heart, if it still worked—twist painfully.

"Do you want to be alone?" he wondered stupidly, already knowing the answer even though he didn't want to acknowledge it. Acknowledging it would mean leaving her, and he didn't want to do that right now. He couldn't. He liked to tell himself that it was because he truly trusted only himself to keep her safe, but that wasn't the real reason. The real reason was, he just didn't want to leave her, plain and simple. He'd done it once before, all those years ago, and it had probably been one of the worst decisions of his life. It had been necessary, yes, but it had torn him apart, too. Reduced him to the pathetic shell of a man he was now.

There was a reason he was the way he was: alone, unemployed, miserable, friendless, and drunk more hours out of each day than he was sober. And that reason was because he'd chosen to leave her behind.

It had been over eight years since he'd seen her, or talked to her, and being here with her again—god, it was almost like being reborn in a way. He could still remember, when he was a kid, hearing the story of Jesus's resurrection at Easter mass. That was a long while ago—back when both his parents had still been alive and he'd still, foolishly, believe that there was someone, somewhere, looking out for him. Jesus had been killed and locked away in a tomb, and yet, as the tale went, after three days, he miraculously rose from the dead, returning to earth and the land of the living. Whenever Ryan was with Claire, he felt something similar—as if he too were coming back to earth—although it was probably more apt to say he was ascending to it from Hell, rather than descending from Heaven like in the story. It was probably blasphemous to think such things, to draw such comparisons between himself and a divine figure, Ryan realized as he stood still and watched her lie there, motionless, but he hardly cared. He hadn't cared what God thought of him since he'd been fourteen and had buried his mother, realizing then that all his ceaseless prayers for her health had been nothing more than a child's silly hopes. And while he had used to fear the Hell that awaited him for his lack of devotion, he'd stopped believing it was anything different from his life here on earth when he'd been seventeen and watched his father be shot dead in front of his very eyes.

Ryan shut his eyes now—those that had seen too much—to try to get rid of the memories, but the attempt backfired. Whenever he closed his eyes these past two days days, all he saw was Sarah Fuller's dead body—the _one _girl he'd managed to save all those years ago, dead; her face eyeless and bloodied, as she hung down from the ceiling, trussed up like she was nothing more than a side of beef. And then there was Joe, smirking from behind her mutilated remains, desecrating her life for the umpteenth time as he took pride in his revolting handiwork.

Forcing his eyes open to do away with as many horrid memories as he could, Ryan was startled to find Claire staring back at him. She hadn't lifted her head from that pillow—she didn't seem to have even moved an inch, in fact—but her eye contact could not be misinterpreted. She wouldn't have gone to the trouble of bothering to look at him if she wanted him to go away.

"You can sit if you want," she finally said, breaking the silence and the stalemate. As he rested gingerly on the edge of her bed, she lifted her head from that pillow and drew her body up into a sitting position as well. With her back pressed against the headboard, she drew her knees to her chest, still covered by the beige duvet, and wrapped her arms around them. For a long while, she just stared at him, and he stared back, neither of them having a word in the world to say to each other.

Her eyes were red-rimmed and raw, no doubt the product of more than a couple crying jags these last few hours, and as they stared at one another, he could see her eyelids fill a little bit more with tears every couple seconds as she thought of her son. Ryan pushed away the ridiculous urge to reach over and wipe her tears away before they could fall. He wasn't allowed to do things like touch her anymore, not unless it was to check her for injuries before quickly letting her go.

Lowering his eyes from hers so he wouldn't be tempted any further, his gaze fell to her hands. Hers were clasped together, her left over her right. He watched as she twisted a small silver ring around the third finger of her right hand. There was a small white stone in the center of it. He didn't recognize the ring, but he became hypnotized by it as she turned it again and again and again around her finger. He didn't know how long he sat, staring at it go round and round, before she spoke.

"If you had any news about Joey, you'd tell me, wouldn't you?"

Her quiet voice snapped him out of his trance; his eyes flew to hers.

"Yes," he answered quickly after a moment of bewilderment. Coming back to himself fully, he spoke more slowly when he added, "You know you'll always be the first to hear if there are any developments."

"Even if they're bad developments?" she questioned.

He nodded. "Even if they're bad," he confirmed, his throat sticking a little at the prospect. He tried never to think about that: the day he'd have to come in to her room and sit down with her and tell her her only child had been killed. But like his inevitable fight with Turner, that confrontation, too, was only a matter of time.

In the silence that followed, Ryan knew they were both thinking of the same thing. The same person. Ryan doubted Claire had thought of anything _but _her son since he'd been kidnapped. But even he rarely went more than a couple minutes without wondering where the boy was, and if he was hurt. If he might already be dead.

"Do you want to go somewhere else?" Ryan asked suddenly, needing to speak so he'd stop imagining her little ten-year-old beaten and bloodied, his body lifeless. "I'm sure Scott and the other marshals would be okay with you moving somewhere else if it'll make you feel safer than being here," he added, trying to sound positive, but she was already shaking her head.

"I know it's stupid," she whispered, "after what happened in here earlier..." _After you were nearly killed in here earlier, you mean, _Ryan thought, mentally correcting her euphemism. "I _know_ it's stupid," she repeated, a little more strongly this time, as if she'd read his mind and heard his judgement, "but I can't help it." Her eyes met his then, and for just the briefest second, he saw a smile flicker across her face as she whispered, "My bed's my safe place. I won't feel any better anywhere else."

A ghost of a smile danced across his own lips as he nodded. "I know," he murmured. Though so many years had passed now, he still remembered all too well how much she liked being in this bed. How she liked stretching out across it in the mornings, and turning towards the window so she could watch the sun rise before getting up to tend to her son. He remembered how she liked pushing the covers back to the foot of the bed at the start of each night they spent together, so that there would be nothing between or around them but one another as they made love.

If he had been the blushing type, he would have gone pink—or maybe red—as he met her eyes once more. But he was who he was—he did not get easily embarrassed, even if maybe he should—and so he just started at her calmly as he recalled all the nights they'd spent together, naked, in this very bed. He had spent so many years trying to forget those nights; trying to erase those beautiful memories from his debased mind. It felt oddly freeing to be able to recall them now. He knew such memories should come back to him with tinges of guilt at their edges, but all they brought along with them was desire: for her, and for the people they'd used to be when they'd been together and happy.

"I've missed you," she whispered, breaking the silence. "I've missed having you here, here with me." As her eyes found his, she transported him from one realm of desire to another: from the past to the present. Even though he was sitting, he could feel his legs go momentarily weak from the sudden need for her that coursed through him. Stunned and tongue-tied, it took him a couple seconds to formulate an appropriate reply.

"I've missed you too," he whispered. Without thinking, he reached his hand out across the bed towards her. Before he could even begin to correct himself and withdraw it, however, she took it in his. He could swear his heart pumped a little quicker in his chest when she squeezed it and pulled it—and him—close. "I've missed being here," he confessed, letting her pull him across the bed and ever closer to her. Half of his brain was screaming at him about what a terrible idea this was—_Get out, get out, get out!_ it roared—but the other half chose not to listen, at least not to listen to any protest except one that came from her.

She brought his hand to her face, and she smiled as she pressed it against her cheek. "Your hands are still warm," she whispered, her eyes now locked with his. She always used to grin when he touched her, teasing him that his hands were the warmest part of his personality.

He brushed his thumb against the curve of her cheekbone now, momentarily delighting when he saw her eyes flicker closed slowly. He knew how her face looked when she shut her eyes in pleasure, and he relished in the sight. He slid his fingers through hers so he could caress the back of her hand. "Yours are still cold," he told her, and was rewarded with a soft chuckle. She had a bit of bad circulation in her extremities, and often her fingers and toes felt chilled, even on warm days. He could still remember the feel of her cool hands and feet when she pressed them against his body after they went to bed. He used to take her hands in his, and exhale hot air on them, or kiss them, or rub them between his own hands to warm them. He always scowled and pushed her away when she requested that he give her feet the same treatment.

When her eyes opened a second later, they found his immediately. Through the redness of her eyes, her gaze was tender. "Nothing's changed, huh?" she asked him quietly.

Ryan could've laughed—_everything _had changed. He was nothing like the man he'd been when they were together; he guessed she wasn't the same woman she'd been back then, either. They had different lives and goals and perspectives. But he knew what she meant. Nothing had changed—at least not between them. Their skin still felt the same to one another as it had eight years ago; the attraction that had blossomed so long ago was very obviously still there.

"No, nothing's changed," he murmured in agreement.

She smiled a little as she scooted closer to him, the duvet cover falling away. "Does this mean I still have to ask you?" she wondered quietly.

He frowned, confused. "Ask me what?"

"Ask you to kiss me."

Momentarily thunderstruck by her boldness—though, really, he should be used to it by now—Ryan didn't have a thing to say. But then the shock wore off, and her offer sunk in, and as his heart began to beat faster in anticipation, he knew the only way to keep himself together was to play it off. "I don't think you ever _asked_ me to kiss you that first time," he replied slowly. She cocked her head to the side, curious. He smiled as he finished: "You _ordered_ me to kiss you, Claire."

She rolled her eyes. "Tomato, tomahto," she muttered with an impatient flick of her head.

She'd barely settled herself by the time he leaned forward and pressed his lips to hers. She responded immediately—he could actually feel the desperation in her being as her body surged up and met his. He could feel so many things he had only dreamed about these past few years—her hands, moving through his hair; her breasts, heaving against his chest as she sucked in a breath; her mouth, secure and hungry around his.

Having already been too far gone the moment she'd taken his hand, he didn't protest or pull away when she laid back against the mattress and kicked the covers away and pulled him on top of her. He didn't tell her to stop taking off their clothes. He didn't even ask her if she had any sort of protection, or if she was sure she wanted to do this right now.

He just stripped himself, and her, and for the first time in days, he succeeded in forgetting all about the death and the blood and the crisis they were at the epicenter of. He forgot about Sarah; he forgot about Joe; he even forgot about Joey. He focused completely on her—on kissing her and touching her and making love to her. He did not once think of anything except the both of them reaching that peak together—that is, until she grabbed his face in her hands and wrenched her lips from his. Shocked and scared at her sudden interruption, he stilled himself at once, and stopped pushing into the long-abandoned home she'd kept warm for him inside her.

"Promise me," she choked out as she pulled their lips, their faces apart. For the first time since they'd started kissing, he realized she was crying again—sobbing. His heart beat faster in fear and shame. Had she not wanted it to go this far? Had she not been ready? Oh Christ, what had he done to her?

"Promise me," she repeated once more, and through his terror, he realized she was still clutching him close. She wasn't upset with him. Then what was she asking him to... "Promise me you'll bring him home safe," she begged, those red-rimmed eyes spilling over once more. The tears they released streaked down the sides of her face, and despite their heavy breathing, he could hear the soft _plop!_ sound each drop made as it hit the now-rumpled sheets beneath them. "Please, Ryan." She slid her hands from his cheeks to his shoulders, digging her nails into his back so desperately he could swear she broke the skin in ten different place. "Promise me," she gasped out between gut-wrenching sobs, "promise me you will bring my baby home to me."

He stared down at her, bewildered and frightened. Was she really asking this of him? _Now_? How could she ask this of him; how could she expect him to give her the answer she wanted to hear?

But as she was lying, sobbing, beneath him, he doubted she was thinking about any of those things. She wasn't thinking about anything at all—nothing and no one except her kidnapped son. "Please, please," she begged him again and again. Her hands gripped his shoulders, his arms, his sides, before settling on his cheeks. She took his face in her shaking hands and brought it level with hers. She took a second to compose herself as best she could, drawing in a breath before she she ordered, "You promise me _right now_ that you will bring my son home to me, Ryan. _Promise_—_me_."

What was there to say? He didn't want to lie to her and yet, he didn't want to make her face the truth, either. He didn't want to be powerless in her eyes. Not yet. Better to save that for the very end.

"I promise," he told her, dipping his face to hers, kissing her so he didn't have to hear her weep anymore. He stroked her cheeks and the sides of her face, doing away with as many tears as he could even as more continued to fall. "I promise," he whispered again and again as their lips broke, which was often, because neither could catch their breath. "Claire, I promise I'll bring him home," he swore to her, keeping the second part a secret: _Or I'll die trying. _She didn't need to know that he no longer had any intention of doing right by her by delivering her the news first himself. If her son did end up dying, he would not be the one to inform her of that particular development. He would very literally rather die than be the one to tear her world to smithereens a second time, and rip yet another family member from her heart and home. He would rather die than witness how her son's permanent loss would strip her body of its soul and pitch her being into a desolate nothingness worse than any so-called hell on earth he'd ever experienced.

"I promise, I promise," he repeated over and over again, even though the words were meaningless. It was in no way up to him if Joey Matthews lived long enough to see his mother again. But still, he whispered in her ear, and against her mouth, and into her hair—again and again and again—as they came up together and then fell apart to pieces once more: "I promise, I promise, I promise."

He had never lied to her, or to anyone, so fervently in all his life. And he had never wished so desperately that he was capable telling the truth instead.

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This ain't love, it's clear to see, but darling...

_**Stay with me.**_

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**Author's Note: **Reviews are greatly appreciated. Thank you for reading.


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